Three Things Sam Has Taught Dean to Believe In
by vanishingact
Summary: Sam has always taken care of Dean, and he wouldn't have it any other way.


Title: Three Things Sam Has Taught Dean to Believe In

Rating: PG-13 (for mild language)

Pairing: Sam/Dean

Disclaimer: I don't own anything! I'm so poor! Aha! Ha ha! sobs and hyperventilates

Summary: _Sam has always taken care of Dean, and he wouldn't have it any other way._

* * *

Dean doesn't believe in God, or angels, or miracles; what he does believe in is what he can see, what he can feel-- such as Sam's cool hand against his flushed cheek, when Dean catches his first cold in who-knows-how-many-years. Sam makes him chicken noodle soup from a can _("Man, you are so domesticized." "Hey Dean, can you even _spell_ domesticized?")_ and adds his own thin comforter to the small pile of blankets already on top of Dean's shivering form, before slipping beneath the layers himself. Dean hates being babied, but he can stand the soothing words that pour from Sam's mouth just fine, as they lay forehead to forehead in a bed meant for one.

"You're gonna get sick too, Sammy," Dean murmurs sleepily, languidly brushing small, sticky kisses against the deep dimples before him _(if Dean ever had a weakness, it's those damn dimples)_. Sam just tangles his fingers into the worn fabric of Dean's shirt and pulls him closer.

"Just want to be here if you need me."

Sam has always taken care of Dean, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

** Dean believes in devotion.**

Sam is thirteen years old when he deliberately puts himself between his brother and a rapidly advancing, seriously pissed-off werewolf. Hearing Sam's minute squeak of fear, Dean turns around with barely enough time to shoot the fucker in the face with a silver bullet, before slinging the still-mortified Sam over his shoulder and high tailing it out of there before someone calls the cops about hearing gunshots.

Back at the motel, John gives his youngest son an earful of hell _("Reckless, idiotic, could've died")_, and slams the door on his way out _("I need a drink.")_. In the silence, Dean gets up from the edge of his bed and smacks his brother on the back of the head.

"Why would you do something so stupid?" he sighs, exasperated.

Why?" Sam just frowns up at him, confused, and says, "I wanted to protect you." Twisting his lips into a vague pout, he looks to the floor, suddenly very interested in the puce-hued stains marring the carpet. "Guess I fucked _that_ up." Dean gives a wry laugh and wraps his arms around his brother's thin frame.

"Don't curse, Sammy."

Even though he's the older sibling, Dean always finds that Sam's always the one to take care of him.

** Dean believes in chivalry.**

Three months after Dean's deal is up, the gate of hell opens again and unleashes every bad dream, every monster, and every regret the Winchesters had put away for good. Dean grasps at the crumbling rock beneath his hands and forces himself through the crowded gate, an unknown desperation urging him forward. In what felt like an eternity confined within the cold silence of hell, he can hardly even remember who he is or what it is to be whole. But there is a name he cannot forget, a name that struggles to escape his dry, burning throat _(Sammy, Sammy). _When he finally crawls out onto the other side and collapses with exertion, Dean could almost sob with joy at the feel of wet, soft earth pressing against the naked skin of his weary body.

He really does begin to cry when a familiar form sprawls out over him, crushing him into a hungry embrace and speaking in what he's sure is the most beautiful voice he's ever heard.

"Dean, oh God, Dean-" Dean shuts his eyes tight and breathes in that smell he'd nearly forgotten _(nearly), _of cheap soap, gunpowder, and--

_ "Sammy,"_ he chokes. When he opens his eyes, his brother _(savior)_ is hovering above him, trembling fingers trailing across the edge of his jaw. "How'd you do it, Sam?"

"I opened the gate."

"You-- what?" Dean scrambles to sit up, wincing as his ribs protest, taking Sam's face into a shaky, but firm, hold. "How many of them got out? Sam, this could mean the end of the world!"

"And the beginning of _our _world." Sam's voice is so matter-of-fact that Dean can only gape. He can almost swear he sees Sam's eyes glint gold in the moonlight.

"Have you gone insane?" he whispers. Sam leans in so close that their lips brush over each other's.

"Dean, my world _did _end when you died; everything was so fucking _ugly_ and _empty_ without you, as if I'd died too. And the earth had the nerve to keep turning. I couldn't understand it; after all the lives you've saved, all the chances you've thrown away, how could the days keep coming? How could they all just continue _laughing, fucking, dancing, killing_ as if their lives came without a price that you've paid with every regret? The world's taken you for granted. But me? God, Dean, even with you gone, I could feel your pain, your fears, your screams-- every single one." Sam presses an open palm to Dean's chest and meets his eyes. "In here."

"These people... these _mere, stupid people_ don't deserve what you've given them, Dean. So take it all back. Stand with me and, for once, have your sacrifices set you free instead of damning you."

Sam rises to his feet, and for the first time, Dean notices the evils lined up in formation behind his brother _(their boy king)_.

"What have you done?" Sam frowns at the fear flickering in Dean's eyes.

"Whatever it took." Sam lowers his lashes, and when he looks up again, his eyes pulse yellow, as he pulls Dean up from the ground and presses him flush against his chest _(our hearts beat in sync)_ to whisper, "You'll never hurt again." He wraps his jacket around Dean's bare shoulders with a tenderness that combats the cold surety of his rigid shoulders and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, blinking away tears.

_ "I'll take care of you."_

** Dean believes in love,  
as fucked up as it can be.**


End file.
